


A Pressing Need

by cypress_tree



Series: Quick Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is away for the weekend, and Sherlock wakes up with a problem that needs fixing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pressing Need

Sherlock opens his eyes. He’s alone—the space on the bed next to him is cold and unwrinkled. John is away for the weekend at some boring medical conference, and there hasn’t been a case in two weeks. _Dull_.

Sherlock shifts, then notices. Oh. Oh, that’s— He wriggles his hips uncomfortably, and images from that morning’s dream come floating back to him.

Of course. This is _John’s_ fault.

Before John, Sherlock rarely woke in this state. And even when he did, it was always more of a low simmer than a pressing need. It was able to be ignored. But then John showed up, with his blue eyes and his sturdy build and his twitching trigger finger, and that night (after the cabbie), images of him were brought, unbidden, to Sherlock’s mind. When Sherlock woke the next morning—

Well, he was in very much the same state that he is in right now.

Sherlock huffs a sigh and blames John again for not being home, because if John were home, then Sherlock could roll towards him and inch forward and nudge John awake. And John would open his eyes, all sleepy and soft and warm, and he would turn around and he would smile and—oh god, John’s _smile_.

Sherlock feels a throb between his legs. His right hand has slipped beneath the covers of its own accord, and his fingers are toying with the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms. He stretches, luxuriously. He points his toes and rotates his ankles. He sinks into the mattress.

Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks about John’s face. The wrinkles on his forehead. The thin press of his lips. Sometimes John wakes with stubble on his cheeks, and Sherlock touches his fingertips to it just to enjoy the texture.

A pleasant thought. Sherlock licks his lips.

When John first noticed that Sherlock enjoyed the stubble, he nuzzled against Sherlock’s neck until Sherlock was whimpering with pleasure. He rubbed his cheek against the hollows of Sherlock’s hipbones, breathing hot exhales over his skin. Sherlock still remembers the tight grip of John’s hands as his stubble rasped against the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. The oral sex afterwards was barely necessary. Sherlock had come within seconds.

Sherlock opens his eyes, and the images vanish. He’s harder than he was before, and he hasn’t even been touching himself. He unties his pyjama bottoms and pushes them over his hips, kicking them off and into a pile at the end of the bed. He feels awkward being half-clothed, so he leans up to take off his t-shirt. He settles back under the covers.

Sherlock’s skin is sensitive. He loves the feeling of the sheets against his body. He shifts down into them until he can pull them over his head, then he slides one hand over his chest, rakes it through a patch of wiry hair, and starts to stroke himself.

_Ah, John_ —

It’s good—a slow, constant pressure that ebbs and flows with every pull. Sherlock’s breaths start coming faster, and images of John’s face, his arms, his chest, flicker quickly behind Sherlock’s eyelids. He doesn’t want to think of anything lower. He _can’t_ think of anything lower or else—

_Damn_. He accidentally thinks about the trail of hair that leads down from John’s stomach. Sherlock’s breath catches, and his eyes snap open.

The warmth under the bedsheets is too much. Too oppressive. He throws them off and kicks them aside. He rolls over to John’s side of the bed and lays on his stomach, inhaling against John’s pillow and smelling John’s shampoo and John’s sweat. He lets out a soft moan.

Sherlock's cock is pressed between his stomach and the mattress. He grinds down, takes a big gasp of John-scented air, and lets it out with a low hum and a curse.

_Fuck_.

Sherlock lifts himself onto his elbows. He sees a faint stain on the sheet where he’s smeared precome into the cotton. He licks his lips and rocks his hips upward. The head of his cock presses into the mattress and drags against it in the most delicious way. He closes his eyes again. He needs new images.

He thinks about the night before John left. Sherlock had spent half the day whinging and John had spent half the day being annoyed by it. As they were getting ready for bed, they passed each other in the hallway, and Sherlock elbowed John in the side like a child. John spun around and glared and Sherlock licked his lips and John grabbed Sherlock and pushed him against the wall and kissed him, hard. They had loud, rough, wonderful sex that night, and when John left for the conference the next morning, he was still glowing from the aftereffects of two orgasms.

_Yes_.

The memory is working. Sherlock can feel himself leaking. He picks up the pace, grinding and rubbing and thrusting, tiny breaths escaping from his mouth, just short of being sobs.

He thinks about sucking John for the first time—awkward and inexperienced, but encouraged by John’s little moans, John’s hand cupping the back of his head, John’s whispers of “ _yes, that’s gorgeous_ ,” “ _more, Sherlock, god_ ,” “ _you’re perfect, don’t stop_.”

He thinks about John in the back of the cab after a case, a visible tent in his trousers because he recognises the look Sherlock is giving him. John’s fingers twitching against his thigh, Sherlock’s mouth watering as John’s arousal grows more obvious.

He thinks about John’s head tilting back, his muscles tightening, his breaths stuttering to a momentary stop.

_Oh, god_ —

Sherlock actually whines. He gazes down the angle of his chest. He lifts his hips just enough to watch his cock hang heavily over the mattress. It’s flushed red, a smear of wetness along the underside. He rocks into the bed, letting it drag across the surface. He moves back and forth, biting his lips, teasing himself, savouring the rub of cotton.

His thoughts shift from what _has_ happened to what _could_ happen—silly sex fantasies that he would never entertain outside of the bedroom.

In the sand on the beach—Sherlock on his back, John between his legs, both of them squinting against the sun.

_Oh_ —

At the opera—the middle of a show, in a private box. John’s hand over the swell of Sherlock’s erection and dozens of people around them, unknowing.

_More_ —

Behind a building on a rainy night—dirt grinding into his knees as John’s cock hits the back of his throat.

_Fuck_ —

Sherlock scrambles up into a sitting position. He fumbles quickly for the lube on the nightstand table, then takes himself in hand and _one_ — _two_ — _three_ — _ah_ —

There is come on his stomach, his chest, his hand. He takes gasps of air. He groans. The world is a swirl of colour, unfocused.

Sherlock swallows, thickly. His eyelids are heavy and his body afloat—an intoxicating dichotomy. He plucks his t-shirt from the floor and cleans up as best he can. The sheets will have to be washed, but maybe John can do that when he gets home. He _will_ be home tomorrow.

Sherlock’s heart warms with afterglow. He closes his eyes and dozes, satisfied.


End file.
